by J Randall
“That would be interesting. I’ll drop the pictures off with Amanda this evening.” Gloria’s vision was perfect, but she had an assortment of colored contact lenses from her stint with British Intelligence.
She stopped by Amanda’s workstation for a brief chat before leaving the UN building.
CHAPTER 46: THE COLLECTIONS DEPARTMENT
SABAH AL AHMED sipped tea as he read through the file on William Holden, Chief, UN Special Commission Baghdad Monitoring and Verification Center.
The file revealed no red flags—a tour in the United States Air Force as a special weapons ordnance officer and, before his current job, advising a relief organization in Southeast Asia on ordnance disposal.
No mention of Holden’s having had professional training. Which didn’t preclude his working for the CIA, but the Institute’s background files were usually accurate.
“Find anything interesting, Sabah?” Armin, Sabah’s controller, knew that the bearded man sitting at the metal desk, dressed in a cotton robe and wearing a checkered black and white scarf around his shoulders, had been reviewing the file with more intensity than a moray eel tracking a fish. He was an efficient and deadly agent for the Mossad.
And Armin was glad that the man worked for the Israelis.
“Looks pretty straightforward. But it doesn’t say much about the man—his habits, likes, dislikes, weaknesses.”
“We haven’t been able to get one of ours onto his team, but in Bahrain we talked to a few of his inspectors who were on R&R.”
“R and R?”
“It’s an American military acronym—it means rest and recuperation. The men we talked to had nothing but praise for the man. They said he leads from the front—another American term for not asking his men to do things he isn’t willing to do.”
Sabah showed no reaction to this. “Nothing else from Bahrain?”
“It appears that the inspectors had drunk a considerable amount of alcohol, which may have influenced their opinions.”
Sabah changed the subject. “I received a phone call last night from one of the tribe.”
“We’ve heard. That’s why you were picked for the mission. Since you’ll be in Iraq helping your tribe, we thought it would be the perfect time for you to do a little job for the Institute while you’re there.”
If Sabah resented his handler’s intrusion into a private matter, he didn’t show it.
“How does Holden fit into it?”
“He’ll be helping the tribe also.”
Sabah frowned. “Why would he do that—what does he want in exchange?”
“He gets the man who has the medallion—the man responsible for the abduction of his inspectors.”
Sabah nodded. “What does the Institute want?”
“It appears that the cleric is in possession of quite a few things that don’t belong to him.” Armin handed the agent a file stamped Top Secret.
The two men remained quiet for the ten minutes it took Sabah to read the file, which described the canisters and their contents and the fact that the cleric had used them to abduct the inspectors.
Sabah handed the file back to Armin. “You want me to repossess the canisters—at what expense?”
“Your tribe, of course, comes first—we wouldn’t want you to let them down—but salvaging the canisters is paramount. The damage that could be done by the cleric and his friends is unimaginable. If they can’t be recovered, we don’t want them to fall into anyone else’s hands.”
Sabah’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sure the cleric has them?”
“We’re sure.”
“I have to ask why you’re sure. Men have failed when operations were based on rumors and assumptions.”
“Of course! I would expect no less of you. We have eyes on the mosque and they have proven reliable, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“Is Holden off limits?”
“You might be able to use him. The cleric is rumored to want him as much as he wants the cleric. Either way, we’re sure you’ll find the best course of action. If UNSCOM has to find a replacement for him, such is life.” Armin waved a hand. “Anything else you need?”
“When do I leave?”
Armin handed Sabah a packet. “Tonight. Here are your travel documents.”
* * *
Sabah Al Ahmed followed a throng into the mosque on Monday and joined with the other faithful for the noon prayer.
He wore a plain white robe and looked the same as most of the other worshipers, except that he stood a few inches taller and anyone who was asked to describe him would probably mention his magnificent, groomed beard and penetrating gray eyes.
A worshiper standing beside him noticed the way he was using those eyes to take in the wonders of the interior.
“Is it your first time in Kazimayn? It is truly magnificent.”
Without seeming to, Sabah examined the man carefully. “Yes. I have come from the north to visit my brother’s family. I have never been in such a magnificent mosque and am humbled.”
“I know, brother, but remember, facing Mecca from a rug in the desert or from a great mosque such as this—one is no more important than the other. Perhaps after prayers I can show you the mosque?”
“Is that allowed? I am unworthy of your kindness, but, oh! how my family will be honored when I tell them what I have seen!”
“I have a friend who is a cleric here. He wouldn’t mind my showing you around.”
“May Allah bless you, brother.”
Having seen the layout, Sabah left the mosque in the direction of the bazaar where a cousin operated a small shop.
Thirty minutes of pounding the pavement confirmed that he wasn’t being followed, so he hailed a vacant taxi. He wasn’t tired and could have jogged to the bazaar, but he couldn’t waste the time.
Sabah found the cousin dusting pottery on a side shelf. Assalaam alaikum, cousin.”
The shopkeeper looked nervously toward the doorway then returned the greeting,”Wa alaikum Assalaam, cousin.”
“Come in, come in. I was told to expect you this morning, but when you didn’t arrive, I delayed closing the shop for the midday rest.”
“Thank you. I had some things I needed to do. Will you tell Medhat that I have arrived?”
“Of course, then we can go to my house. They’ll pick you up there this evening.”
CHAPTER 47: “HE FISHES WELL WHO USES A GOLDEN HOOK”
–LATIN PROVERB
BILL GOT OUT OF BED NUDE as usual during the summer months and put on a pair of cutoff khakis before walking to the communications center.
He was accustomed to getting phone calls at all hours of the night, but one from Samuel Bittermann was unusual.
The duty officer shrugged his shoulders and pointed first to a wall clock that showed 0345 hours, then to a secure phone.
“William Holden, sir.”
“William, I hope I’m not intruding on your sleep.”
“No, sir, I was reading Machiavelli.”
A chuckle came over the line. “That seems appropriate. William, I wanted to apprise you of some assistance coming soon from friends of ours.”
“Friends, sir? Anyone I know?”
“You know of them. They’re the ones who misplaced some items, ultimately causing your inspectors to go into a deep sleep.”
Bill nodded and waited for the rest.
“You can expect to be contacted in a day or two.”
“I appreciate your giving me a heads-up.”
“Keep me apprised, William, and if you need anything give me a call…One other thing. An autopsy has revealed that Billy Dumont apparently had a violent allergic reaction to the nerve agent. His respiratory system shut down.”
Bill clamped his jaw muscles hard.
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate your letting me know…There’s something you need to be aware of.”
“What’s that, William?”
“A cleric left Billy Dumont’s UN identification card at t
he compound gate yesterday.”
Bill heard Bittermann take in a quick breath before speaking.
“What do you surmise was the reason for that?”
“…It could be that they found it and wanted to return it.”
“…You don’t believe that, William.”
“No, sir. The bastard’s laughing at us and wants us to see what he thinks of us infidels.”
Bittermann sounded mildly alarmed. “William, I don’t want you to take any rash actions. After what happened in Turkey we know how daring they can be. Whatever you do, it must be well planned.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill reflected briefly that he sure didn’t have much of a plan yet and he was reluctant to tell Bitterman about the tribe. At least until he was sure of their motives.
“I’ll let you know. Good night, sir.”
* * *
At nine the next morning Bill merged the white UN Toyota steadily into the traffic in front of the BMVC compound. The street was congested with a thicket of aging trucks, cars, motorcycles and carts, pulled by everything from donkeys and camels to two-legged laborers.
Robert Tilden was riding in the passenger seat. Bill had put a quarter of a mile between them and the compound when Bob spoke.
“He’s back there, Bill.” Bob indicated the motorcycle he had been asked to look for.
“Thanks, Robert. I saw him also. Tell me if he lags behind us or pulls over with mechanical problems.”
“You got it, Boss.”
After the council with Bittermann Bill had gone to his room but sleep had evaded him as he tossed and turned. His mind kept bringing up the cleric and the possibility that he might never leave the security of the mosque.
Twenty minutes after leaving the compound, Bill pulled alongside the curb across from the golden dome and its four guarding minarets.
They watched the motorcycle drive past and turn into the road next to Kazimayne Mosque.
Bob tilted his head toward to Bill. “What are we gonna do?”
“Just wait.”
* * *
They had been waiting for ten minutes when the Imam stepped out and fixed them in a glare.
Bill started the jeep and crept across the street to the front of the mosque, stopping no more than twenty feet in front of the cleric, who gamely held his ground, giving not an inch.
Bill reached into his shirt pocket and grasped the tan leather book he’d picked up in the cave.
“Two can play that game,” he said quietly and tossed the book toward the cleric.
The book hit the pavement and bounced to a stop at the cleric’s feet.
But the cleric didn’t move. He stood deadly still and kept his fathomless eyes trained on his nemesis.
Bill smiled at him coldly and drove away from the curb.
Bob shook his head. “That’s one scary cleric…What did you mean when you said two can play that game?”
“Nothing, Robert, just a figure of speech.”
* * *
The Imam of the Cave sat at his plain wooden desk and examined his friend Ehab Al-Zibri’s little book. He had recognized it immediately. His friend had carried it in his robe.
It contained the names and addresses of family members and friends. On some of the pages Ehab had written excerpts of inspirational sermons that glorified Islam.
Near the end of the book, the Imam found the brief note, “My friend is going to Mecca. I will join him when we have sealed the cave.”
The loud wailing that emanated from the Imam’s throat startled and alarmed the other clerics and the few faithful still in the mosque. What wounded animal was bellowing out in pain and rage?
The clerics converged at the door to the Imam’s room. But no one dared to enter—they would wait until the Imam came out.
When the Imam opened the door and saw his brothers, he didn’t hesitate.
“I want him. You must put all of the efforts of your faithful into finding a way to get the infidel.”
Mahdi, the oldest cleric in the mosque, looked wide-eyed at the others. “Which infidel do you mean?”
“You know who!”
The Imam’s hands were shaking. His brothers had never seen him in such a state and were afraid to speak.
Except for Harun. “Do you want him dead, brother?”
“No, I want him to live for a long time.”
“Yes, Imam. We will get him, but it may not be easy.”
“Have more people watch the hotel. If we can catch him making a mistake it will give us an opportunity. Allah will show us the way.”
Mustafa stepped forward. “I will do it now—if that is okay with you, brother?”
“See that it is done.”
CHAPTER 48: EXCHANGE OF CODES
GLORIA WAS EXHAUSTED. She had traveled twenty-four hours to finally reach her hotel in Baghdad at nine p.m. local time.
The flights to Paris, then Amman, Jordan had been uneventful, but the bus ride to Baghdad had taken its toll. Gazing through the dust encrusted window with its spider web of cracks, Gloria had watched the setting sun cast long shadows on the treeless wilderness of the desert. It had brought back memories of her and Nigel’s visit not so long ago.
She handed her French passport to the clerk behind the Dar Al-Salam Hotel’s reception desk.
“Will you stay long, Miss Caruthers?”
She lifted the leather strap of her camera bag off her shoulder and set the bag on the floor next to her Pierre Cardin suitcase and cosmetic case.
“I’m here for Le Figaro,” she answered in her best French accented English, “to do a story on historical sites in and around Baghdad. I believe I have reservations for two weeks. If the assignment ends early, we will of course pay for the full time.”
“One hundred and twenty dollars, US, a night. You have room 55. I have a man carry your bags…We keep your passport overnight, but man in morning give it back.”
“Merci.” She handed the clerk five US dollars and watched his eyes light up.
US dollars were the currency that made things happen in Baghdad and could buy most anything needed by the few correspondents—and fewer tourists—who visited Iraq after the Gulf War. Those rare commodities that the Iraqi dinar couldn’t purchase, the US dollar could.
Gloria tipped the baggage carrier, locked the door and removed an electric razor from her cosmetic case. The razor actually worked, but its main function was to detect listening devices.
She swept the sparsely furnished room, which had a single twin bed, a small writing table and a worn, overstuffed chair with two camel humps in its dusty cushion. Then she swept the bathroom with its curtainless shower, toilet and stained sink.
She found nothing.
Apparently no one was suspicious of her being a correspondent. Of course, that could change tomorrow.
She felt the gnawing pangs of hunger, but a shower and sleep appealed to her more than food and would suffice until breakfast.
She wouldn’t meet with her contact until morning, and then only if he thought it was safe.
* * *
An unsavory breakfast in the hotel restaurant brought some relief, though remnants of jet lag brought on bouts of yawning. She poured another cup of weak coffee and lit a cigarette, hoping to feel human again soon.
The dining room was practically bereft of diners, from which she inferred that the hotel’s guests had either risen early or knew where a decent breakfast could be obtained.
Hearing approaching footsteps, she expected the waiter with a fresh carafe of café latte, sans much coffee, but was pleasantly surprised when she saw a good looking man decidedly not a waiter standing beside her table.
“Mademoiselle Caruthers?”
“Oui, monsieur. And you are—?”
“Peter Hoffmann. Berliner Zeitung.” He took her extended hand in his and bowed his head in a quick, practiced manner.
The man and his mannerisms reminded Gloria of the Prussian officers she had seen in some old black and whit
e World War II movies. His black hair was combed straight back and revealed a high forehead. His skin was tanned and free of blemishes. His high cheekbones and petite nose would have attracted the envy of some women. His magnetic blue eyes and trimmed eyebrows called for a second glance.
Gloria maintained her French-accented English. “May I offer you coffee, Mr. Hoffmann?”
“Yes, thank you, that’s very kind.” He sat down across the table from her.
“You may not think so after tasting it.”
“Excuse me—oh, I see, you were making a joke…I’ve discovered a café that makes wonderful German coffee. Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure sometime.”
“Perhaps I will sometime.” She wondered if he understood the double entendre they had just shared.
“What are you doing in Baghdad?” she asked. “If I’m not being too forward in asking.”
“I’m doing a story on the historical sites in and around Baghdad. And you, Mademoiselle Caruthers?”
“Please, call me Gloria. I’m not married but I feel too mature for mademoiselle and I really don’t fancy being a madame…I also am doing a story on the historical sites around and in Baghdad.”
The exchange of verbal codes was correct and contact had been made.
“Yes, Gloria. And I’m Peter. I have a hired car and plan to visit the ruins of Babylon this morning. Would you like to come along? It’s a short drive, maybe ninety kilometers south of Baghdad. I can have you back to the hotel by 2 o’clock.”
“That would be merveilleux, I must go to my room and change into something appropriate for trekking. And get my camera bag. Shall we meet in the lobby?”
“Say, in fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll see you there.”
* * *
Heading south out of the city in a six year old Ford Escort, both operatives checked often to see if they were being followed. When neither had spotted anything suspicious and the traffic had thinned, Gloria took the electric razor from her camera bag and swept the car.
“We’re clean but they could be on the road ahead of us,” she said now in her own accent.
“I guess we’d better put on our best face when visiting the ruins,” said Peter, also in his usual British accent, “in case we pick up a follower…Nigel sends his love and said he misses you dearly.”